


The Sweater Curse

by Sodium_Azide



Series: The Angel Who Knits [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Gets Vetted By Aziraphale's Knitting Buddies, Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley's Bad Driving (Good Omens), Crowley's Hiss (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Curses, Developing Relationship, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Knitting, M/M, Sentient Bentley (Good Omens), Threats of Violence, To A Plant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25240708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodium_Azide/pseuds/Sodium_Azide
Summary: Rose looked at him in silence, then actually put down her knitting, folding her hands quietly in her lap. She smiled thinly. “It’s a bit of a legend. If a girl makes a sweater for her young man before they’re married, the relationship is cursed to end before a wedding can occur.”Crowley’s mouth went dry. His jaw worked helplessly, as a horrible dread settled into his bones. If his relationship with the angel was going to be destroyed because of a piece of outerwear, he would ruin the entire textile industry so thoroughly that the entire human race would have to go back to wearing animal skins. But, the angel hadn’t made it yet. Maybe the intention to make the sweater wasn’t enough? If he could stop Aziraphale before he started the thing, the curse wouldn’t set in?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Angel Who Knits [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828531
Comments: 52
Kudos: 150





	The Sweater Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Technically a sequel, but stands on its own. The disaster demon has to prove if he is 'knitworthy'.

Crowley was repotting a yucca when he abruptly realized that he was a freak of nature and no one should ever look at him again.

When working with a yucca, even the common variety usually kept as a houseplant, humans were meant to wear heavy gloves, as the leaf edges were razor sharp and could easily draw blood. Crowley had been paying attention to the soil pH and moisture requirements, and not to the recommended handling, and was doing his work bare-handed. The yucca was wary enough of him, even early in their acquaintance, to be sure that its leaves did no harm. 

He had legitimately stolen the yucca, because it was clearly unappreciated and it had little stripy bits at the bottom but not on the newer leaves on top, so obviously the owner didn’t deserve it and was compounding the error by not having the stripiest possible yucca. 

Also because the plant looked cool and like nothing else in the flat.

Also because he liked saying ‘yucca’ and staring at Aziraphale while the angel tried to decide if he was having him on or not.

But more importantly, he was a freak, which occupied all of his thoughts while he was mindlessly scooping far too much perlite into a fabulous jet planter, because the angel had measured him for a sweater. That the angel intended to knit the human way. For him. And apparently no pattern sizing existed that would be suitable for such as he.

He was made up of long limbs, too many ribs, and far more vertebrae than the average human, but he had been making up his corporation by imitation, ok? Smooth talker he might be, but it was still bloody hard to bring up the topic of skeletons into average conversation. In later centuries, there were actual anatomy textbooks available (thank whoever for the angel’s dedication to the printing press) which helped hugely as he was trying to adjust things, but frankly he had gotten used to what he had settled on, and what he had settled on was hellishly skinny (ha) far too extended, and he still wasn’t sold on the idea of limb joints, but bipedalism was excellent, so he’d take the bad with the good. 

The bewilderment as the angel had stared at his little handwritten charts and at his antique tape measure hadn’t troubled him at the time, as they more-or-less celebrated their first official date (bless his language, but hallelujah!) back at the bookshop, with an excellent wine, a heap of soft balls of yarn, and the measurement session for The Sweater For Crowley. No, the realization later was what got him, realizing that he was a nightmare who had imagined itself into earthly existence, very poorly, obviously, according to the angel’s little x’s and o’s paper knitting patterns. 

His lip curling in pointless frustration, he lifted his botanical theft up by the main stalk and centered it in the pot, hissing wordlessly as he topped it up with a bit of peat moss. All the usual spots in his plant room were taken, as there had been no executions for some time. Perhaps it was overdue; he would have to examine everyone incredibly closely to find an excuse, as all of the survivors looked like the pinnacle of photosynthetic perfection. 

Carrying the newest addition to the flat’s population, he looked around the crammed jungle irritably. Knocking off an empty pot from The Pedestal of Performance Review, he set the yucca dead center in the new space and buffed a nigh-invisible smudge from the glossy planter.

“I liberated you becausssssse you look unique, but if you don’t get up to ssscratch like the ressssst of the group, I will demonssstrate how sssssssupposedly drought-tolerant rebelssss perform in a tub of industrial dessssssiccant.” 

Crowley stalked around and watered everyone who needed it, leaving the empty pot on the floor as a reminder, despite his dislike for clutter. Yeah, let that be a lesson. He’d clean later, once the yucca had heard all about its predecessor.

Determinedly thinking about nothing, he stalked past his workbench, cleaning it with a snap of his fingers. Time to find somewhere else to be for a while. 

By the time he was careening around a corner, grinning at the sound of fading barely-missed pedestrian screams, he was feeling far more like himself. By the time the Bentley gave a little nudge of the steering wheel, he was in a fine mood. She sometimes gave suggestions about what little gifts the angel might enjoy. She was right most of the time, and getting better every year. He let her parallel park, amused as she edged within millimeters of the blue compact behind her. Best of luck if that driver wanted to get out without miraculous help. Crowley planned to take his time wherever the Bentley had recommended. 

Slamming the door behind him, he stopped abruptly on the sidewalk as he grokked the location, but shrugged and continued. The little bakery where he had first found Aziraphale with his knitting group was a cute little hole-in-the-wall, and he still hadn’t brought the angel any of their fancy macarons, so why the heaven not. 

The demon strolled inside, breathed deep to appreciate the smell of something decadently rich with chocolate, and then nearly swallowed his tongue as he was grabbed unexpectedly by the arm and nearly yanked off his feet. The tiny elderly human woman beamed at him, deeply wrinkled face creasing into an intimidatingly wide smile as she tugged him away from the door. “You’re Aziraphale’s young man. About time you came back.” she tutted judgmentally. She had a surprisingly strong grip, which Crowley blamed entirely for allowing himself to be steered. That and the implication that he was somehow late for an appointment he had no memory of making, which was unsettling in itself.

The circle of yarn devotees that made up the London Yarnbombers was nearly identical to the last time he had seen them, blessedly without the angel, but centered around a larger table crammed with colorful pieces of projects in a chaotic heap, looking like a layered coral from one of the more enthusiastic tropical reefs. He tried putting on a smile, hoping it did the job, as he absently pulled out the empty chair for his captor. “Greetings again, ladies. Ms. Leanna.” he added belatedly, as she took the proffered seat, steadying herself on his arm as she did so. 

“Good to see you again, Mr. Crowley.” The tone was perfectly courteous, but even the lowest imp would have been able to sense the danger. He murmured something indistinct in return. Rose, the unspoken queen of the London Yarnbombers, surveyed him calmly as she continued creating some sort of knitted flower out of vanishingly thin blue strands. Aziraphale had talked about her endlessly while the angel had bustled around him with that tape measure. Many years widowed, skilled in a dozen handicrafts, grandmother to twenty, age-weakened lungs finally forcing her to abstain from spray painting graffiti, as she had so loved doing as an anti-war protester for a half century. Aziraphale had worked small miracles to ease the arthritis in her hands, apparently, and so the London Yarnbombers were now the most prolific group of their kind in the country. And now Rose was looking at him in undisguised assessment, and could identify him and send him to be captured the moment he set foot in her fiefdom. This was fine.

Maybe he could escape when she blinked, and maybe they would all forget that he had been there and would never ever mention his visit the next time that Aziraphale joined them. 

“Sit down and join us, Mr. Crowley. I’m sure we would all love to know you better.”

Or perhaps he should quit with his stupid, stupid optimism. A chair had appeared for him, carried obediently by one of the bakery assistants who had apparently leaped into action at some unknown signal from one of the knitters. He gathered his courage, accepted his likely demise, and sat.

“Do you knit, Mr. Crowley?” He shook his head mutely. Leanna reached out and took his hand, thankfully with a gentler grasp than previously, and spread out his fingers in a businesslike manner. “I think he has good hands for it. Should work.” Approving nods bobbed around him, and there was a little flurry of activity as a small ball of soft green yarn appeared from the left, and what seemed to be an enormous pink plastic railroad spike was produced from the other side of the table and passed around to him. Leanna set aside her current project, pulled out a slim knitting needle and a length of cord from her bottomless bag, and shuffled to face him. Rose smiled gently across as Leanna held out her thumb and finger and made a loop. “So, knitting is actually quite easy to learn. This is called ‘casting on’...”

An hour later, Crowley had a crick in his neck, and his hand was possibly permanently curled into a claw. Gladys, seated on his left, had tried to correct his hand position for pulling the yarn taut, wrapped her hand entirely around his wrist, and now believed, over all his protests, he had never had a good meal since birth. She and everyone else in the circle was apparently now trying to rectify this via dessert samples and seemed disappointed that he was not visibly putting on weight, with the strong implication that he was persisting in being skinny as some sort of insult to their efforts. 

He had been fed several cookies, a tartlet of some kind, and a slice of banana bread, and had apparently delighted them all by being able to identify even the smallest hints of spices. Please. That pink cardamom was obvious, even under that heavy dose of nutmeg. He had a snake’s sense of smell, and the memory of all of human culinary development, plus the angel waxing rhapsodic about everything he loved about each meal they had shared since Rome. So it was like he was cheating. Very demonic. 

Speaking of.

“My yarn is cursed. It keeps, just, falling off, or it’s loosening itself, or something.” 

Leanna’s hands were steady as she assessed his pink plastic beginner knitting needle. “Oh, lad, you’re just not keeping the tension.” 

“But it was too tense before, I remember that when the yarn snapped, and you said it was too tense.” 

“Lad, I think _you’re_ too tense.”

“That is _entirely_ possible.” Crowley gritted, staring down at his lap in betrayal. “My hands are stupid.” 

A chorus of sighs and little chuckles met his very sensible proclamation. Gladys patted his shoulder consolingly. “We were all beginners once, young man.”

“So what is our Aziraphale making for you?” came the quiet voice from across the table.

Couldn’t Rose see that he was already defeated? Couldn’t she leave him his dignity? He dropped his plastic needle, watching as the clearly-cursed yarn happily unlooped itself. “He said he’s making me a sweater. But, I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

“And why do you say that, Mr. Crowley?”

He swallowed, still staring down at his lap. All the bitterness from earlier today came back with interest as he irritably clenched and unclenched his aching hand, watching his spidery fingers regain their usual dexterity. “None of the patterns work for me, and I’m not really worth it, anyhow.” he finally muttered.

Rose hummed noncommittally. “Have you ever heard of the sweater curse, Mr. Crowley?”

Crowley looked up in horror. Today was the worst day. “There’s a sweater curse? How? Is it on the sweater? Or on the maker of the sweater? Or is it the one that wears the sweater? Is it all of those things?”

Rose looked at him in silence, then actually put down her knitting, folding her hands quietly in her lap. She smiled thinly. “It’s a bit of a legend. If a girl makes a sweater for her young man before they’re married, the relationship is cursed to end before a wedding can occur.”

Crowley’s mouth went dry. His jaw worked helplessly, as a horrible dread settled into his bones. If his relationship with the angel was going to be destroyed because of a piece of outerwear, he would ruin the entire textile industry so thoroughly that the entire human race would have to go back to wearing animal skins. But, the angel hadn’t made it yet. Maybe the intention to make the sweater wasn’t enough? If he could stop Aziraphale before he started the thing, the curse wouldn’t set in? 

“Sit down, Mr. Crowley.” Rose’s voice brooked no argument. He hadn’t even realized that he was half out of his chair, already filled with half-developed plans for averting his own personal angel-depriving sweater apocalypse. He slowly settled back into the chair, knee restlessly jittering.

“It’s not about the sweater, Mr. Crowley. It’s about the knitting of it.” The rest of the ladies around the circle were quieter than they had ever been, some of them continuing their work, others with their eyes on him, some seemingly lost in memories. Rose continued. “Speed comes with practice, but the effort to make a sweater is a large one. It costs time, skill, and the yarn that we use, either bought or spun ourselves.” she paused. “Do you understand, Mr. Crowley?” He shook his head, the fear from before still trembling deep in his bones. “When someone makes a sweater for their young man, it’s a showing of effort and love. If that young man is then careless with it, or doesn’t appreciate what it means, or just doesn’t bother to wear it, that says a great deal about what kind of husband he would be. The sweater curse is real, but it’s a blessing. Better to end things before the wedding, if it’s clear that the recipient wasn’t knitworthy.” 

Crowley swallowed and nodded slowly. “Yeah. Knitworthy. That makes sense.”

Rose looked at him steadily, hands still folded demurely under her pile of shawls. For the first time, Crowley wondered if she had made them herself, or if they had all been gifts. Something in his expression must have pleased her, because she cocked her head like a bird, then smiled gently at him, picking up her knitting once more.

“Did you come to see our Aziraphale?” 

He blinked behind his sunglasses. “Er, no, he said that he’s only here on Thursdays. I was coming to get him macarons.” 

Half of the table seemed to nod in approving unison. Crowley sheepishly returned the various loaned knitting paraphernalia, with the exception of the broken yarn, snapped in half via demonic frustration. Crowley wasn’t sure what had occurred, but it seemed safe to make his escape. Another bakery assistant appeared out of nowhere as he straightened, grinning cheerfully at him with a gift box. “Here you go, sir!” she chirped. He stared at her in confusion. Everything that went on in this bakery confused him. “That’s...not mine, thanks.” 

There was a full wave of giggles again, as the chorus of clicking needles ramped up to full volume. Gladys knocked back her graying head and laughed throatily at him, with the unselfconscious confidence of a woman whom men had killed for.

The assistant, who seemed barely post-pubescent, pushed the box insistently into his chest, then circled around the table to squeeze Rose fondly before dashing back behind the counter to their usual work. Rose raised an eyebrow at him, a facial expression he now deeply regretted inventing in the Ottoman Empire. “Those are our Aziraphale’s usual favorites, although do let us know what he thinks of the lavender one.” His helpless look must have amused her greatly, as her smile widened. “I own this place, Mr. Crowley. What kind of bakery do you think this is, that would allow a bunch of knitters of questionable legality in here every day of the week, who buy nothing?”


End file.
